The Thick Of It The Orange Revolution
by Grisette
Summary: As the dust settles after the election Malcolm Tucker needs to take drastic measures to stay at No. 10. With his right hand man Jamie Macdonald crossing the floor the fight for a Lib/Lab coalition is on. There will be swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**Thank-you to everyone who has taken the time to read this and for all the lovely reviews and feedback. As you've probably gathered the election didn't go quite as I guessed it would; Con-Dem alliance, really, who would have thought that might actually happen? Feel like smacking Nick Clegg on the end of the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Bad Nick. No. Stop nuzzling David's crotch, he doesn't like it. (He is smiling though.)**

**Now this little story has come to an ending of sorts after five chapters, but I will be writing some new stuff in the next couple of weeks so please do check back through My Profile page soon and if you've enjoyed it do pass it on. **

**Grisette **

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* * *

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**DoSAC offices - May 4th, 8.35am**

"Alright my little cock-holsters gather around daddy."

"Good morning to you too Malcolm," Ollie said, voice faux-sweet.

"Yeah, yeah, take the fucking pleasantries as implied. Glenn drag your carcass over here. Where's Nicola?"

"She's um - " Ollie pointed to her office. She was pacing, phone clamped to her ear. "Family stuff. She's had…"

"Unless she's run some cunt over or hired an illegal au pair I'm not interested. Talking of which - this UKIP cum junky she's about to lose her seat to…"

"Knightly," Glenn said.

"You've been doing that brain training haven't you," Malcolm said with an evil smirk. "Alright then Albert Wankstain - you've got a constituency poling around forty-four thousand votes and a minister holding a majority of two hundred - "

"Two hundred and fifty," Ollie put in.

Malcolm glared at him. "Five percent swing and you pair are out on the street hawking your mutton for Morrisons vouchers and Diamond White. So what's the line?"

Ollie and Glenn looked at each other for a beat too long and Malcolm groaned into his hand.

"Well it's all about her track record isn't it," Glenn said uncertainly. "Unemployment's down, they've had four percent growth - "

"No-one cares about growth unless it's popped up on their fucking balls."

"Immigration?" Ollie asked.

"In Leamington fucking Spa?"

"It's what we're hearing from the canvassers," Glenn said.

"Then it's the usual tack - long history of migration into the UK…what's made us a great nation…vital to the economy - Ollie, where are your people from? Moominland isn't it?"

Ollie rocked back on his heels. "We're the only people whiter than the Scots."

"You notice how the racists are the exact people who could use some attractive foreign DNA in their pool." Malcolm's phone peeped and he read the text message with a thin smile. "Knightly looks like someone poured semolina into a fucking surgical stocking."

"Oh, right well she can say that then."

"Wouldn't be the stupidest thing she's come out with." He trousered his mobile. "Look, just make it clear that UKIP is a fringe party for neo-Nazi's and bodged lobotomy jobs. Discreetly though, you - "

Malcolm froze midsentence, his eyes fixing on the television playing news24 a few metres away. A Lib Dem love-in at a nursery in Highgate, cute kids and photogenic mums all looking with adoring eyes at Toby Coyne and his Boden-wrapped wife. The cameras were going off but he ignored them effectively enough, everyone acting natural except for the short, grey-suited man in the background, who was turning away from the camera, smoothing a hand down his yellow tie as he snarled into his Blackberry.

"Is that Jamie?" Ollie asked. "Jamie's working for Coyne now?"

"I should have had the wee shite rendered."

"You didn't know he'd crossed the floor."

"I fucking knew," Malcolm snapped and it sounded like a lie.

"It's a diagonal cross," Glenn said, aiming for tact. "It's not like he defected to the wankers. I mean we could be working with Coyne's lot in a few weeks time."

Ollie looked down at his shoes. "If we're lucky."

"Over my cold, stiff one," Malcolm said. "And yours."

He stormed past the television and hammered on the glass wall of Nicola Murray's office.

"You've got an election to fight when you're done swapping falafel recipes." He turned to Ollie. "Get her to change out of that dress - looks like she's got a fucking wheat intolerance."

Malcolm stalked away towards the lifts, already dialling.

Glenn gave a wry smile. "Burke and Hare going head to head then."

* * *

**St George's Golf Club - Leamington Spa - 11.22 am**

"Jesus fucking Christ what was that?" Nicola Murray said.

Ollie and Glenn climbed into the back of the people carrier, avoiding answering. The cameras were still going off on the other side of the window, half a dozen photographers, local news crews, everyone interested in her now. She fixed a rictus grin until the car pulled away, swearing through her teeth.

"It escalated," Glenn said.

Her mobile rang. "Shit, it's Malcolm."

"Don't answer it," Ollie said.

"Full of good advice now aren't you."

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.

"Whose idea was it to come to a fucking golf club?" She glared at the rolling green fairway as they passed out of the gates. "I suppose we're off to the Women's Guild now are we? Jesus Christ. What next - tea and shitcakes with the Masons?"

"They requested fifty posters," Glenn said weakly.

"They're probably wiping their arses on them."

Nicola's mobile was still ringing, the tone becoming angrier. She closed her eyes, touched her fingertips to her forehead.

"Hi Malcolm."

"What the fuck was that?" he shouted. "Did we not run through the lines on this issue? Did I not make it abundantly fucking clear to you yesterday what you were to say? You get hit in the fucking head woman?"

"In my defence - "

"Darlin' we could mobilise the whole of Trident in your defence and it wouldn't be enough."

"He used the word Polack."

"And you used the word racist. To a voter. In front of the press. Do you see where the problem is? You called a sixty-five year old Falklands veteran a _racist_."

"He was a racist."

"And that twat in Rochdale was a bigot but we don't have the fucking luxury of honesty. We know they're a bunch of mouth-breathing racist shites but we have to _pretend _Nicola, we have to smile and nod and _pretend _we agree that yes, of course their feckless, tunnel-cunted daughters deserve first dibs on the council houses."

Ollie tapped Nicola on the knee, held his iPhone up and showed her the interview the man was giving to Sky News already. Red face clashing with his pink Pringle v-neck.

"Shit."

"Yes darlin', shit indeed. A big ole shitslide is thundering down the mountain towards you."

"I'm not apologising."

"You will suck that man's balls if that's what it takes to get your lead back"

"They hate us Malcolm." Nicola pressed the side of her face against the window. "I'm not going to humiliate myself for the sake of a seat that's already lost."

"Give Ollie the phone."

She handed it over. Ollie listened and nodded, tried to interject but was cut off sharply. Malcolm's voice flared one last time then he was gone.

"He's handling it," Ollie said.

"I'm not apologising."

Ollie's face twisted briefly.

"I'm not."

* * *

**Lib Dem HQ - Cowley Street - 11.50am**

The television opposite Jamie Macdonald's desk was playing muted but the red banner running across the bottom of the screen said it all.

'Minister apologises for outburst.'

Nicola Murray on a thrown together podium, flanked by Glenn and Ollie - it looked like the shittest threesome ever convened. She was doing that strained face they all pulled when there was a gun to the back of their heads, like she was trying to shit stickle bricks.

A fist rapped against his door and Jamie quickly shut down the photo file open on his desktop - a black granite worktop, three lines of coke, a teenaged blonde with a rolled up twenty hanging out of her nose

"A'right boss I'm on it," he said, getting up as Coyne came in, closing the door after the man.

Coyne had aged fifteen years in the last two hours, brown hair pulled about, pale under his tan. They'd need to get the girl back in Jamie saw, slather some more Touché Éclat over his eye bags. Looked like he hitched his bollocks up there.

"She said it was the first time she'd tried it."

Jamie forced himself not to grin, made a close approximation of a sympathetic expression.

"Aye well we all done stupid shite at her age."

"Can this be contained?" Coyne asked, pacing between the desk and the window.

"Depends where it's coming from."

Coyne stopped, shot Jamie a look which was supposed to be fierce; he'd seen clocks with tougher faces.

"This has got your mentor's fingerprints all over it."

"If Tucker wanted this out it'd be out now and your wee girl'd be splashed across the red tops like a tramp's pish. This - " he stabbed a finger towards the computer. "This is the wankers batting you round the ribs to see what you're made of."

Coyne sat down, propped his chin on his fist.

"What if we release it now before anyone can make any mileage out of it?" he suggested. "It's only coke isn't it?"

Jamie laughed at him. "Are you fucking serious? You think that'll play well in Cuntbridge Wells do you?"

Coyne chewed on the ball of his thumb. There was a tick of red felt-tip on the cuff of his shirt from the school visit they had just made.

"It must have been one of her friends…"

"Welcome to fucking politics," Jamie said in an undertone, picking up his mobile. "Alright shitrag what you got for me?"

Jamie watched Coyne's bottom lip wobble as he stared into middle distance. The man was barely cut out for second string opposition, leadership would probably kill him.

Too many skeletons in the closet for him to worry about.

The voice at the other end of his phone had begun to drag.

"If you don't fucking know why am I talking to you?" he snapped. "You're as much use as a cock ring in a convent."

Coyne looked up at him. "What now?"

"Best you're not here," Jamie said, punching a number into his phone. "Save you denying knowledge later."

Coyne nodded, shuffled out, closing the door behind him.

"Jamie Macdonald as I live and breath - I heard Malcolm had you sent to Guantanamo Bay."

"Aye well, I busted out."

Simon Hewitt's smirk was audible down the phone. "And now your man's pushing Malcolm's out of number ten. Must feel good to escape his shadow finally."

"You're the fucker shagging his sloppy seconds," Jamie said. "Alright that's the foreplay out'ae the way. Now this wank about Coyne's daughter and the coke party…"

There was a minute pause and Jamie heard Hewitt clicking his fingers at someone in the newsroom.

"She's eighteen Jamie. Fair game."

"You still think that when I've got a pair a jump leads hooked up to your bollocks?"

"How ever is Malcolm managing without your gift for understatement?"

"Don't fuck me about you bloated prostrate. I will not allow you to run this story."

"Ask me nicely."

"I'll ask you fucking nicely you cunt - I'll come into your fucking house tonight and carve 'please' into your fucking chest with a razor, how's that for you? Polite enough?"

Hewitt sighed. "This is all getting a bit tired Jamie, this Govan hardman act. Do you think Coyne is really going to keep you around once the election's over? JB won't wear it for one thing. Not after you leaked that photo of the future chancellor. No room for you in a coalition government, you wee radge."

"You want'ae worry about _your_ immediate future."

"I'm feeling very secure thank-you."

"You're as secure as - "

The phone went dead.

"Fuck. Fucking spunk-chugging cunt."

Jamie's hands scrambled over his desk, found the printer and threw it across the room, smashing it into the wall, shattered black plastic and ink trails spattering the wall next to the open door. Coyne was standing watching, his mouth hanging open slightly.

"They're running with it," Jamie said raggedly.

"Oh my god."

"JB's people gave them it." He drew Coyne into the office, gripping his elbow. "One of their kids was there - some fucking double barrelledcuntophobic with an iPhone."

Coyne smiled weakly. "We've shaken JB. We can win this thing Jamie."

"Aye." He clapped him on the shoulder. "Fuck coalitions. You are going to be the next Prime Minister if I have to personally rip apart Tom and JB with my bare fucking hands and eat their raddled corpses."

Coyne blinked rapidly, eased himself away from Jamie. "How do we spin this?"

"I'm on it. You go kiss some wee baldy pensioners or something - hug a hooker."

He waved Coyne out of the office, humming _Swanee _to himself as he dialled. One ring. Two.

"They're running it."

"You've made your old man very proud," Malcolm said, a smile in his voice.

"Aye - viva la fucking revolution."


	2. Chapter 2

**DoSAC Offices - 6.22pm**

"Coffee."

"Thanks Glenn." Nicola took a mouthful. "Wash the taste of old man's balls off my tongue."

"Coffee won't get that off," Ollie said. "What do you use Glenn? A young man's balls?"

"You offering him yours?" Malcolm asked, appearing in the open door of Nicola's office. He threw a copy of The Standard down on her desk; she'd made the front cover. "Alright Ren and Stimpy, fuck off."

Ollie and Glenn shuffled out. The door closed softly behind them.

"You threw me to the fucking wolves Malcolm."

"You climbed into the enclosure sweetheart. Then you hung a big slab of raw bloody meat around your neck - what d'you think was going to happen? You'd get a good licking?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me? You have fucked me darlin'. You've fucked all of us with this shite you've pulled. You have handed the wankers this election."

Nicola laughed humourlessly. "I knew I shouldn't have taken Saddam Hussein out - I thought at the time, this is going to be unpopular."

"A fine fucking time you chose to get clever."

"Maybe I should resign then," she said. "After all I've misspoken in a thoroughly reprehensible manner apparently. Yes I think it's only right that I resign."

Malcolm glared at her across the table, the vein in his temple popping.

"And what're you going to do if you resign?" he shouted. "The immigrants have got all the jobs."

He dropped into the chair opposite her, beaten looking.

"You cannot resign Nicola, we've been through this. We fight to the end. And then we set fire to everything flammable and leave a massive pile of scorched shit behind us for the wankers to wade through."

She reached out and turned over the newspaper, sick of looking at her own face.

"So what do I do?" she asked. "Pander to the racist vote? I could put a sign on my door saying no blacks, dogs or Irish."

"We could get you a wee t-shirt with the confederate flag on."

"Well it's more flattering than a white hood I suppose."

He smirked to himself.

"Yeah right, because you're an Adonis."

"I get by." He stabbed out a quick text message; sent it. "Look tomorrow you're going to do the rounds yeah? Bit of light manufacturing, cottage industries - no migrant workers alright, nothing fucking contentious. Old school British endeavour and ingenuity, the English like to be told they're good at that shite."

"Okay."

"You just smile and look interested alright? And if someone at this micro-dairy wants you to taste their fucking Bishop's Bell-end or Stinking Finger or whatever the fuck they're making you eat it."

"I will eat the Bishop's Bell-end…as the choirboy said to the actress."

Nicola's phone rang. She glanced at the display and rejected the call.

Malcolm paused in the doorway. "If you've got trouble at home - "

"What? You'll come around and bollock my family into submission?"

"I do have other fuck-ups in other departments to deal with. Even if it feels like I'm constantly wiping your arse. And I don't want to be back here tomorrow morning dealing with the fallout from your daughter mutilating a swan."

"We have a dead tree overhanging our neighbour's fence," Nicola said, hearing how pathetic it sounded. She picked up a pen and threw it down. "That's my problem too apparently. Fucking herbaceous border control."

**Number 10 Downing Street - May 5th**** - 7.45am**

"Stop fucking grinning woman," Malcolm shouted at the television. "Mother of god just get in the car."

The pictures were live, a dozen hacks outside Nicola Murray's house, microphones thrust into her face like so many robot cocks.

A small red-head forced through the throng - "Minister how do you respond to charges of racism?"

Nicola looked bemused, reaching for the car door.

"Are you prejudiced against the white working class minister?"

"Of course not." She smiled. "Some of my best friends are white."

Malcolm spluttered, "You did not just fucking say that."

She climbed into the saloon and it pulled away. The Sky News camera stayed on it for a few yards, until a gardener's van cut across the shot.

He grabbed the phone.

"Malcolm, good morning."

"I'm speechless," he said. "_I _am speechless."

"It was a joke for Christ's sake."

"Don't bring that cunt into it as well," he snapped. "Is there any filter at all in that fucking skull of yours? I know - you come to my office and I'll smash it open and have a bit of a rootle around, see what I can find. How's that for a plan hey? Then I'll tape up whatever blasted grey shit-smears survive and you'll probably pass for a rational human being."

"It's early."

"That's your excuse?" He stormed around his desk, looking for something to kick. "I should have sent you to the fucking Chilcot enquiry with that kind of eloquence. Genuinely Nicola I think you've missed your calling darlin', you should've been a fucking QC. 'Mr Polanski what have you got to say in your defence? Oh well, I hadn't had much sleep your honour.'"

"That isn't amusing."

"Don't fucking interrupt me when I'm giving you a pre-bollocking. You have forfeited the right to speak unprompted until I tell you otherwise."

"Malcolm - "

"You're still doing it. Just shut your fucking yap for two minutes and listen woman - this cum-bubble Knightly is fucking you harder than a sex-starved power top on a Viagra bender so you had better be on your best fucking behaviour today."

Sam came in and put a coffee in his hand.

"You want to think yourself very lucky Coyne's daughter's rampant substance abuse has come out. That wee cokie's given you a stay of execution. You should send her a present - some of those tissues with the aloe vera in them, she'll appreciate that."

He ended the call, glanced at the early editions on his desk. The Sun had gone with 'Blow for Coyne', The Mirror 'Party Lines', of course The Mail had stayed with Nicola but they weren't losing any voters there. The Independent had a yak on the front cover.

He flipped to The Times' letter page, saw it sitting centre, a demand for JB to publicly distance himself from Coyne. The letter was attributed to one of the Tory's oldest old guard. Coyne should take a stand, condemn his daughter's behaviour. They couldn't throw their lot in with the Lib Dems until he did.

Malcolm dialled, waited.

"That's very nice Jamie," he said. "You really caught the old scrote's tone."

"Coyne is absolutely fucking livid," Jamie said, manic sounding. "Get this, he's told JB to cut the cunt off and Lord Rim-Jaw of Cornhole is sticking by every word he _didn't _fucking write." He laughed. "They're like a pack of dickless dogs fighting over a really attractive poodle. Although to be fair some of my best friends fuck poodles."

Malcolm laughed shortly. "I love you too."

**Whitewood Dairy - 2.10 pm**

"She's doing okay," Glenn said.

Ollie watched Nicola try a spoonful of yoghurt. "Well she hasn't headbutted a voter or called anyone a Holocaust denier yet so it's a definite improvement."

The man Nicola was talking to smiled broadly, answered her still grinning, looking impressed, honoured even.

"She's actually rather good at this sort of thing when she's got the right crowd. Engaging."

Ollie shrugged. "All this free advertising for his stupid llama milk ice-cream of course he's going to suck-up. Then knowing her luck someone'll ask her why she's come to a dairy that uses foreign animals instead of our racially pure English sheep."

"Thank god they don't make rocky road," Glenn said with a small smile. "You can see the headlines."

"Racist Ripple."

They followed at a distance as the tour moved on into the packaging area, an assembly line with half a dozen white-suited women working faster than they had been before the cameras arrived.

Ollie's phone peeped and he checked the message.

"Shit. Fucking hell. Get her out of here."

"What?"

"Just do it. Now."

He dialled Angela Heaney's number.

"Angela hi, look this story about the minister…"

"You're squirming Ollie," she said.

"You're not going to run a story like this," he said. "You can't possibly have verified his version this quickly for one thing and…and for another thing…Angela, this kind of negative reporting panders to the basest elements in your readership. And - "

"We're running it. It'll be on the website in ten minutes."

"Then why warn me?"

"I'm not warning you, I'm torturing you."

"Malcolm - "

"Is a walking corpse."

Ten feet away there was a sudden cacophony of phones ringing and beeping.

Glenn touched Nicola's elbow but she was still talking as they headed for the door, followed by the press pack which had scented blood.

"Or maybe it's already on the website," Angela said. "Can I get a quote Mr Reeder?"

He killed the call and managed to take a couple more quick steps before the question was fired off.

"Minister can you explain to us why you are employing an illegal immigrant?"

Nicola blinked rapidly, gave a smile of incomprehension. Ollie gestured to her but she wasn't looking at him.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Your gardener minister - Zlatan Radic - he's an illegal immigrant from Bosnia."

Her eyes widened but she had no answer.

Glenn stepped across her, hustled her out of the building. "Mrs Murray will make a full statement regarding this matter in due course."

Two minutes later, in the back of the car, she said, "That's it, Malcolm is actually going to kill me."

She held onto her phone but it remained ominously silent.

Finally Ollie's rang.

"Malcolm."

"You bring that cunt to me now Oliver."


	3. Chapter 3

**Lib Dem HQ - Cowley Street - 5.20pm**

"You cannot keep dodging this issue," Jamie said. "The fat lady has sung. She's sung her piece, driven home and she's laying in bed with a pasty in one hand and a fucking dildo in the other."

Coyne sat slumped in the chair opposite him, washed out, tie askew. He held the latest poll results on his lap, couldn't stop looking at them.

"Twenty-four points," he said. It was all he had said for the last few minutes.

"Aye. You've dropped like a prolapsed fucking rectum."

"We'll be lucky to take seventy five seats."

"Seventy-two."

Coyne covered his eyes with his hand. "Jesus Christ. What happened?"

Jamie came around the desk, sat in front of Coyne, leaning into his face.

"JB's put one up your shitter when you weren't expecting it and it hurts. I understand this." He spread his hands. "Now you can go home and cry about it in your fucking shower, or you can wipe the cum and the shit off your arsecheeks and let me take the cunt down."

Coyne flushed scarlet.

"I had assurances."

"Assurances," Jamie spat. "JB tickled your bollocks and you rolled over. Fucking assurances - if you don't do this then I can _assure_ you you will come third in the polls. And if you do come third in the polls after losing eight points in two fucking days I can _assure _you that the bunch of closet cocksuckers and hairy arm-pitted Ugly Betty rejects you call your party will have you out within the week."

Jamie wiped his hand across his mouth, brought his voice back down. "Do you want to be Charles Kennedy eh?"

"No."

"Too fucking right no."

Coyne was looking at the poll results again and Jamie snatched them out of his hands.

"Yesterday you were the prime minister elect and today you're just another cunt in a Paul Smith suit, but you've still got something they want."

"Can we do this without the industrial language please Jamie?"

Jamie pressed his palms together, made an innocent face, all eyes.

"With the deepest respect minister the situation, as it stands at present, can only reach a satisfactory resolution via the judicious deployment of comprehensive, shoulder-deep fistings. We'll have JB's Bullingdon gaybos shitting cufflinks till Christmas."

Jamie checked his watch. "Come on, you've got a statement to make."

**Number 10 Downing Street - 5.45pm **

"And there was me thinking you'd done the honourable thing and driven into a fucking petrol tanker," Malcolm said.

His office looked like a gang of Rangers fans had ripped through it, papers eviscerated across the floor, scattered orange peel and a broken lamp laying next to one of the chairs. Behind his desk Malcolm looked just as wrecked, the merest glimmer of venom lingering.

"Shut the door Ollie," he said, eyes fixed on Nicola. "Don't want the splatter messing up the hallway."

She held her attaché case in front of her.

"I'm starting to wonder if there's anyone else in this government," Malcolm said, his voice a low monotone. "Because it feels like all I do is get up, come to work, bollock you, day after fucking interminable day."

"Look Malcolm - "

"Hey, stifle your gash woman."

"No, I'm sick of taking this shit from you," she snapped.

Ollie and Glenn both backed away a couple of steps.

"It's easy to sit in this fucking office with no scrutiny and no accountability telling everyone else what useless twats they are. How long do you think you'd last out there in the real world, where people can actually answer you back and tell you what a massive fucking arsehole you are." She slammed her case down into a chair.

There was a moment of pregnant silence. Glenn and Ollie looked at each other behind her back, waiting for the eruption.

"Is that it?" Malcolm asked mildly. "I'm an arsehole? You don't want to accuse me of engineering 9/11 or set your fucking Bosnian war criminal gardener on me?" He nodded. "Oh aye, add that fresh helping of shit pudding to Nicola Murray's plate. Dead nuns darlin'."

"How the hell was I supposed to know? He's a gardener from an agency."

"You've answered your own fucking question - he's from an agency, who else works for fucking agencies but illegal fucking immigrants? As you'll be finding out on Friday morning when you start looking for another job."

Glenn cleared his throat.

"And Private Godfrey enters the fray."

"No I was just…"

"Hawking the spunk off your lungs?" Malcolm asked. "Three fucking hours and what've you come up with? Bollock all."

"We did have one idea," Ollie said cautiously.

Nicola turned on him but he continued.

"We were thinking…perhaps…that it might be best if Nicola's husband was the one who arranged the gardener."

Malcolm slapped his hands together. "And there you have it, the essence of politics - find some cunt to take the blame as quickly as possible."

"No."

"It's already done," Malcolm said, reading a message on his Blackberry. "You didn't think I was going to wait for you wankers to show up did you? The fucking Powerpuff Girls." He waved vaguely at them. "Without the power and with only one poof."

Nicola's phone was ringing again and her thumb hovered over reject.

Malcolm looked up. "You should talk to him."

"You bunch of absolute shits."

She answered the phone, turning away from them and walking into the furthest corner of the office.

"Other than that I think the visit went rather well," Glenn said.

"Oh aye? What about the wank-splatter up her back?" Malcolm pointed to the dried yoghurt staining Nicola's jacket. "Or did you do that in car? Go on - get out the pair of you, before I do something I'll fucking enjoy."

Malcolm stood by the dead fireplace watching Nicola grimace and gurn. He glanced away at the television, the sports roundup on news24. It was a few minutes to six.

"No James…no I know that…"

Nicola placed the toe of her shoe inside the dropped lamp and slowly shattered the light bulb.

"…because it won't cost you your fucking job will it?"

Malcolm walked over to her, held his hand out.

"Speak to Malcolm."

"Hey Mr Nicola Murray I've got a proposal for you - you support your fucking missus, take the blame, apologise and generally, you know, do what a fucking husband's supposed to do in situations like this…"

There was a stirring of protest; Malcolm kept talking over the top of it.

"You do that or Her Majesty's Inspectorate of Taxes will crawl so far up your arse that you'll puke out your own lungs. How's that for a mutually satisfying accommodation?" He smiled at Nicola, who was chewing her thumbnail. "Yeah. Good man. We must do this again sometime."

Nicola took her phone back.

"Thank-you Malcolm."

"Yeah well, you're going when I say so. Not some bunch of wankers in Leamington fucking Spa."

"How fucked am I? Really?"

"Ten percent swing since this morning…you could overturn that maybe." He went back around his desk, sat down. "Unless you're saving something special for tomorrow. Robert Mugabe's lovechild locked in your cellar. A predilection for flashing your vadge on Chatroulette."

"We all need a hobby Malcolm." She retrieved her case and walked out.

Alone again he turned the sound up higher on the television, stood in front of it with his arms folded as the headlines banged out.

Election. Riots in Greece. Volcanic ash.

Then there was a blond newsbot standing in the atrium of an adult learning centre in Hackney. Toby Coyne's supporters out in numbers, orange placards filling the shot behind the reporter. A blue one appeared for less than a second before it was snatched down.

The press pack surrounded Coyne as he moved through the crowd, smiling, grabbing hands, but Malcolm saw the tightness around his eyes. Trailing a couple of steps behind him Jamie was giving orders to a young black guy who looked terrified.

Twenty seconds later Coyne was on a small podium addressing the crowd. Jamie almost out of shot, hidden among the crowd.

Malcolm answered his phone when it rang.

"Turn the fucking Simpsons off aye - it's showtime."

"You know you look taller on camera," Malcolm said and on the screen Jamie scratched his brow with his middle finger. "That's very unprofessional young man."

Coyne thanked everyone for coming, launched into his usual rhetoric about clean politics and fairness.

"He looks like a fucking milked prick."

"Showed him a poll with an eight point slide," Jamie said. "Poor fuck nearly cried."

Coyne paused for a moment, seemed to draw himself together, and asked for questions. He batted the first one away then the planted one came.

"Mr Coyne several labour ministers - including Dan Miller this afternoon - have again advocated tactical voting to support your party in seats where they can't win - will you reciprocate?"

Coyne waited a couple of beats.

"You miserable cuntrag," Jamie growled. "I am going to rip him in half and drink his spinal fluid."

"Greenlight the sniper?"

"I'm glad you asked that Michael," Coyne started slowly. "The events of the last forty-eight hours have made me realise that, as much as we might want to listen to our hearts, elections should be decided by the head. So I would urge our supporters to make their votes count by casting them strategically."

"Fucking hell," Malcolm said.

"Aye."

Another hack piped up. "Tonight's YouGov poll puts you on twenty-four points Mr Coyne - can we expect a coalition with the Labour party if these numbers are representative?"

"There is only one poll which counts now Nick." Coyne smiled.

"How's it feel to be a kingmaker?" Malcolm asked.

"Same as being a pimp, " Jamie said. "Only with shitter clothes and more blow-jobs."

The phone on Malcolm's desk rang.

"That'll be Tom wanting someone to come and change his fucking incontinence pad. He'll have shit himself watching this."

"Coyne and Dan Miller make a pretty couple hey?"

"I'd pay to watch them fuck." The phone kept ringing. "Go on, your hoor's on the move again."

"Give Tom one for me."

Malcolm put his hand on the phone but didn't lift it; let the nutter cunt suffer.

**DoSAC Offices - 5.30 am - election day**

"Place smells like a brothel above a kebab shop," Malcolm said.

Glenn was standing at his desk running an electric shaver over his chin. "By the time the Five Live interview was over it didn't seem worth going home."

"Your next door neighbour had to watch himself getting undressed did he?"

Malcolm lifted the lid of a pizza box, let it drop. "Where's the shite white dope?"

"He's getting coffee."

A sudden snore broke across the office and Malcolm followed it to the low electric pink sofa in the reception area. Nicola Murray huddled under a trench coat, eye make-up smeared across her temple.

He clapped his hands above her head.

"Good morning sunshine."

"Fuck off."

"Old man chucked you out?"

She hauled herself upright and trudged away from him. "Don't you ever fucking sleep?"

"Red Bull and stem cells. I have them on a drip."

He followed her into her office.

"What have I done now then?" she asked, taking a make-up bag out of her desk.

"The Five Live thing last night…"

"Let me guess - I didn't smile enough? Or was my top too low?"

"Knightly."

"He didn't turn up."

"He's gone dark," Malcolm said. "It looks like he might be planning something big for the hustings today."

Nicola stood by the window and stripped her make-up with a wipe.

"Burning me in effigy maybe?"

"Just don't you hand him the fucking matches."

"Do you think I could have five minutes privacy?"

Malcolm held his hands up, backed out of the office. "Wouldn't want to shatter your fucking mystique darlin'."

The lift doors pinged and Ollie stepped out with two trays of coffee, a takeout bag hooked over his wrist.

"Where did you go for that?" Glenn asked. "Bloody Peru?"

"It took awhile to get the piss to froth for yours."

"Surely your piss always froths; sticking your prick in Tory cunt." Malcolm took a cup from him, walked away and switched the television on, the breakfast news looping on BBC One. "I fucking love this bit - look at JB when that woman kisses him. I've not seen revulsion like that since Tom's wedding."

"He looked good at that processing plant last night," Glenn said.

"For someone who was trying not to fucking cry yeah."

"Dan Miller's cosied up with the Lib Dems," Ollie smiled. "So we're on for a coalition then?"

"_I'm_ on for a coalition," Malcolm told him. "You two are still dole fodder if you don't get Nicola through today looking like Catherine the fucking Great."

"Didn't she fuck her horses?" Ollie asked.

"They teach you anything at that jumped-up rape-factory?" Malcolm asked. "Except how to tie a fucking cravat obviously."

"The polls are looking a bit more promising," Glenn told him. "She's taking thirty-five percent against thirty-nine for Knightly. It's winnable as long as…" His eyes widened as he scanned the computer screen.

"Shove a pound up his arse Ollie he's stopped working."

"Knightly's surfaced," Glenn said.

"Face down in a river?"

"Face up in a hotel bedroom apparently."

Ollie answered his phone, just listened.

"Not heart attack?" Malcolm asked. "That's just what we need, the fucking sympathy voters turning out."

"He won't get much sympathy," Ollie said. He tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, grinning. "Mr Knightly was found last night by his assistant. Hanging from the rail in his fucking wardrobe."

Malcolm looked up to the ceiling. "Oh my god yes. A chokewank. Beautiful."

"They've been trying to keep a lid on it but one of the paramedics has sold the story already."

"Nicola get out here - it's your lucky fucking day."


	4. Chapter 4

**DoSAC Offices - May 7****th**** - 10.55am**

"I feel like the last rat left on the Titanic," Nicola said, dropping the bag from her lemon zinger into the bin. "Three more weeks of fucking campaigning for an election everyone knows we've already lost."

Glenn murmured; didn't look up from his phone. "There's a rumour Farage is going to stand against you as Knightly's replacement."

"Helicopter candidate," Ollie said with a grin.

"It was a light aircraft."

"Well, I don't think you can rely on two of your opponents dying so we should start considering strategy," Glenn said. "Bear in mind the wankers will be throwing everything in their shit-pail at you this time."

"On the upside you scooped most of it out yourself already, so they're going to have to find something new."

Nicola slumped back in her chair. "Fighting on two fronts now - we know how well that ends."

"The opposition won't risk piling in and splitting the vote," Ollie said.

"No they'll just fling shit at me from the sidelines."

"This is actually very good for you," Glenn said brightly.

Nicola scowled.

"Your supporters will vote for you whatever but Knightly's lot will mostly likely switch back to the Tories now they're close to government again. This will almost definitely split the vote in fact."

Ollie's phone rang.

"I've got to…" he went out of Nicola's office before he answered. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hi Ollie sorry are you busy?" Emma asked.

He laughed. "No I'm free for the rest of the day actually. We could go to an Ibis and have red-hot, bareback monkey sex if you like. That sound like something you'd enjoy? Oh no you wouldn't want to do that would you? Because _we broke up_."

"I dumped you," Emma snapped back.

"Yeah well if you want your stuff back I gave it to charity. Mind - since you're a crazy fucking hellbitch."

"You know I thought it'd be the mediocre sex but it's these charming conversations I really miss."

"You phoned me," he reminded her. "Which I imagine is down to Stewart." He laughed again, hearing her huff. "Jesus Christ, you can't even whore yourself out properly."

"Look do you want to come around tonight or not?"

"Yes."

"Alright then."

"I'll fucking look forward to it." He ended the call, only the vaguest idea what he was doing. If nothing else it'd been a while.

On the tv news24 was showing an empty podium outside Number 10 - the PM expected out at any moment to make an overture to the Lib Dems.

"Tom's coming out," Ollie shouted.

Nicola and Glenn were arguing about the possibility of taking her husband campaigning with her as they left her office.

"It'll go down well," Glenn said. "Family values and all that."

"Not if I stab him in the face during a visit to a childrens' ward." She perched on the edge of a desk. "Bloody hell Tom looks like someone's just shit in his mouth."

Glenn sat down at his computer. "According to Skittles' blog Mrs Coyne's ordered new furniture for Number 11 already."

"Skittles?" Nicola asked. "Why do these bloggers always have such stupid names?"

"They're saying it's a done deal already with the opposition."

"Jamie's going to love that," Ollie said. "It'll be like one of those reality shows where they take a kid off a council estate and send him to Harrow. Then give him a big rusty knife to defend himself with." He tapped a pen between his teeth, watching the tv for a few seconds; Tom awkward sounding, flustered. "How did he ever get married? 'I…uh-nuh-uh…would you perhaps do me the…aahhhh…honour of pummelling my junk?'"

Glenn glanced at him. "No wonder Emma broke up with you."

"Emma has come crawling back thank-you very much." Ollie bowed slightly.

"And what very interesting timing…"

Ollie answered his phone. "Malcolm, how's - "

"Don't talk just listen - you still play squash with Dan Miller yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Right I want you in my office in one hour, scrubbed up and ready to fuck. Give old man Steptoe the phone." Ollie handed it over.

"What's going on now?" Nicola asked. "Jesus I haven't even been out of the office, what can I possibly have done wrong?"

Glenn tossed Ollie's phone back.

"It's not you, it's Steve Fleming. Malcolm's staging a coup d'etat."

**No. 10 Downing Street - 11.30am**

"Lord Nicholson, as much of a pleasure as ever."

Malcolm closed the door behind him, ushered him into a seat.

"You want me to tell you how pretty you are or can we cut to the fucking?"

"My sources inform me that Mr Coyne is not unamenable to the idea of a coalition - "

"Some fucking sources you have," Malcolm said. "That boat has sailed. It's sailed, been hijacked by Somali pirates and is back on the market with a brand new royal blue paintjob. The crew's dead in the fucking water as well."

Malcolm glanced at a message coming into his phone, suppressed a smile as he tapped out a fast reply.

"Not you of course. You'll have a ringside seat for the Eton-grade arseraping this party's going to get - up there in the House."

Nicholson steepled his fingers in front of his chest. "All is not yet lost Malcolm."

"No, we could barricade ourselves in and threaten to let off the nukes if we don't get unconditional support," Malcolm suggested. "That was Tom's initial plan anyway. It's going to take a fucking exorcist to get him out of this place."

"I think Tom's position might be becoming rather untenable," Nicholson said smoothly. "I imagine that if you were to ask our voters they might say that with a different leader we would have won a significantly higher number of seats."

Malcolm smiled. "_Et tu _Julius."

"'Men at some time are masters of their fates.'"

Malcolm finally sat down, watched Nicholson and waited.

"Dan Miller's wife was at university with Coyne if I remember correctly," he said. "And unless I am very much mistaken they served at the same think tank in the early nineties."

"Julius I'm good but I even I can't evict Tom before two o'clock this afternoon. Unless you actually want to murder him." Malcolm shrugged. "I'm not opposed to the idea I just don't fancy trying to shift his body on my own. Hey - we could cut him up and smuggle him out in the red boxes."

"We need him to bow out."

Malcolm laughed. "Tom's not going anywhere of his own accord. He's the fucking Rafa Benitez of politics."

He picked up his phone; another message, similar to the last.

"What the hell's Fleming doing making contact with Coyne?" Malcolm demanded. "Did you okay this?"

"Fleming isn't on the negotiation team as you well know."

He stabbed at his laptop. "This fucking Skittles bitch - the BBC have got it now - they're quoting them as a high level Lib Dem insider. They've fucking cut and pasted straight off the blog. 'A terse discussion between Toby Coyne and Labour's Mephistopheles-without-portfolio Steve Fleming is understood to have taken place within the last half an hour.'"

Nicholson blinked slowly at him. "If this is you Malcolm - "

"Look much as I would love to kick Fleming's bollocks up into his mouth, I'd rather do it with us in power. It's just mindless thuggery otherwise." He scanned down the page. "You need to contain him Julius - 'Fleming and Coyne spoke frankly for ten minutes.' Frankly. They might as well have said Coyne told him to go fuck a trucker."

Lord Nicholson stood, rebuttoned his jacket.

"I will deal with Fleming Malcolm. You just bring your talents to bear on Tom."

Malcolm sketched a vague salute at his back.

He dialled Glenn's number. "Start pumping the denials about Tom planning to stand down. His position is not untenable. There is no putsch - you get me - he's just feeling _tired _after the exhaustive campaigning. He's going home for the weekend to _rest._"

"Ah that old chestnut," Glenn said. "And this blogger - Skittles - what's our line on the Fleming stuff?"

"Fleming has acted beyond his remit - you're not prepared to say anymore until he's laid out on the slab."

"Which will be when?"

"Soon as I'm done sharpening my fucking knives."

**Lib Dem HQ, Cowley Street - 1.35am**

Toby Coyne watched a replay of the PM's address with a fixed smirk, casting occasional glances over his shoulder at Jamie, who was typing on his Blackberry.

"Is it true what they say about him?" Coyne asked.

"The bedwetting? Oh aye."

On screen Tom retreated back behind the black door and the election results were plastered across the screen once again as a late declaring seat came in. Another one for the wankers.

They cut back to a reporter outside Cowley Street - "Despite the Prime Minister's offer, senior sources within the Liberal Democrats are already suggesting that a deal with the Conservatives is imminent. Leaving their supporters wondering whether a understanding was reached during the election campaign itself."

"What?" Coyne snapped. "Where's this coming from?"

"They're just turning on the shitwhisk."

"This is serious Jamie."

He came around the desk and blocked off the tv.

"This is exactly what you fucking need them to be saying. Do you want to be the girl at the party nobody wants to shag?"

Jamie's phone rang.

"What?"

"We've got a problem outside."

He went to the window, looked down onto the pavement where two dozen protestors with placards and banners had turned up. They were heavily outnumbered by press.

"Now _this _is a fucking problem," Jamie admitted.

"How do they get organised so quickly?"

"Bunch of work-shy fucking hippies. They're being directed from somewhere. This is someone trying to force your hand."

"No-one is going to force me into moving before I'm ready."

Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. "Fucking aye boss. You've got the only tight cunt at the rugby club dinner - you name your price."

Coyne turned away from the window; the voices were reaching them now.

"Are you sure about this Jamie? It seems like a risky strategy. The numbers are horrible for one thing."

"Trust me - there's only one way you're going to get your policies treated seriously and this is it." He nodded towards the door. "I'll see if I can get a fucking bulldozer in to shift that shower of shite down there."

Coyne went through into his own office and Jamie closed the door after him.

His phone was ringing.

"Good afternoon Jamie - things proceeding smoothly are they?"

"Get to the fucking point Hewitt you rancid, slack - ah I can't be bothered, you know you're a fucking cunt right? You don't need me to tell you again."

"This leak from Cowley Street - do you have any comment for us to add?"

"Fucking leak," Jamie said smiling. "Some geek twat wanks over their laptop and you lick it up. You're a jizz-kitten Hewitt - off the fucking record of course. Although if I add it to my blog feel free to quote it."

"You appear to be avoiding the subject. You're slipping fella."

Jamie brought up Skittles' blog on his computer. The latest post was ten minutes old - a call to arms aimed at the grassroots. They wanted a mass rally outside HQ Saturday morning. No Teal Coalition.

"It's a story in itself," Hewitt said smugly. "The former hardman of New Labour can't keep a few Lib Dems in line anymore. Do you feel out of your depth Jamie?"

"Fuck you."

"Separates the men from the boys, occasions like this."

"I'll separate your man from your boys you don't lay the fuck off this now."

Hewitt snorted. "Are you stamping your little feet Jamie - it sounds like you are from here."

Jamie ended the call.


	5. Chapter 5

**No. 10 Downing Street - 11.05pm - Friday May 7th**

The door stood open but Ollie knocked anyway.

"Come in if you're fucking coming," Malcolm said; returned to his phone conversation. "Listen Steve Fleming is a very peripheral figure in this gangbang and I think you should consider whether you want to be quoting a fucking fluffer...or whether maybe you'd rather not look like a prize cunt tomorrow morning when every other outlet is printing the _actual _story that I'm giving you."

Ollie walked over to the television - cameras outside Lib Dem HQ where a flash mob had descended, lit by arc lights and glowsticks. They were chanting 'Don't do it Toby.'

"You believe this?" Malcolm asked. "Some anonymous twat in Cowley Street's doing more to destabilize the Con-Dem alliance than all of us put together."

He stepped back, sized Ollie up.

"You've been shagging."

"What - no - I…"

Malcolm smiled. "Love in wartime. You should have been here during the 2001 election, it was wall to wall hookers and cocaine. Noel Gallagher did an acoustic version of _Politcian _in that chair over there - you know Cream right? You're old enough for that?"

Ollie nodded, wondering when Malcolm had last slept.

"Love that fucking song - Jack Bruce man." He answered the phone. "Look - hey, hey, hey - Steve mate, come on now there's no need for that sort of fucking language."

He grinned at Ollie, eyes lit.

On the television Newsnight was showing Fleming storming out of Portcullis House half an hour earlier. The reporter announced that, according to 'senior sources', Fleming had offered Coyne 'The P.M's head on a platter.'

"Just keep your head down for a few days," Malcolm said. "Hampstead Heath's nice this time of year I'm told. Give you something to occupy your mouth."

Ollie's phone rang and he walked away to answer it.

"Emma I can't talk right now."

"Don't give me that shit - where's my ByteStor Ollie?"

"What are you talking about? I haven't got your fucking ByteStor."

"It was on my keys and now it's gone."

"You are mental."

Malcolm was watching him.

"I know you've got it and I am going to - fuck _off _Phil," she said in a rising voice imperfectly muffled by her hand. "You are going to bloody regret this you…fucking spaz."

She killed the call.

"Do I need to prepare my happy face?" Malcolm asked.

Ollie handed him the memory stick.

"Twat-a Hari comes good." He smiled wolfishly. "I'd kiss you but I made a rule never to taste Tory cunt - that's in _Das Kapital _you know? One of Engels' contributions obviously - Marx couldn't get enough of the old aristo-pussy."

"Their proposal to Coyne's on there."

"Old news. What else?" Malcolm tossed the stick back to him. "Open it up."

"She's been working with Stewart," Ollie explained, booting up his laptop. "So there's pretty much everything he's asked her to do during the last week."

The wolfish smile ratcheted Malcolm's face. "Find me something to ram up JB's pisshole. Something spikey yeah."

Ollie started opening files; stopped.

"Can we actually use this stuff?"

"Bit late to be getting moral now son." Malcolm leaned across the desk. "This is the most astute move of your career, don't throw away the scrap of respect you've earned."

"I meant - where do we stand legally?"

"You think she's going to admit to her lot that she lost vital fucking intel while she was on her knees between your legs? Course she fucking isn't - she'll tell them she left it in the back of a taxi. This can't come back to you unless she's prepared to destroy her career first."

Malcolm shook a couple of cans of Red Bull, looking for a live one.

"Is Tom standing down then?" Ollie asked.

"You not seen tomorrow's _Guardian _yet?" Malcolm passed him a refolded copy, Rowson's cartoon uppermost.

The prime minister standing on the front step of Number 10 wearing a suicide vest - thumbs on a pair of triggers.

"The left-wing press has spoken."

"But does he know it?" Ollie asked.

"He knows," Malcolm said darkly. "He'll do what's best for the party. I'll say that for the twat, he won't take the rest of us down with him, despite what Martin fucking Rowson thinks."

"Knock-knock."

"Julius come on in."

"I alight bearing gifts."

Ollie shot a grin at Malcolm but he was up already, taking a coffee from Nicholson, looking almost genuinely pleased to see him.

"Steven is baying for your blood Malcolm."

"Howling at the moon like a wee, gay werewolf."

Malcolm made a fast gesture at Ollie and he moved away with his laptop. There were drafts of speeches, several versions of the offer the wankers had made to Coyne. He kept looking.

Nicholson glanced at the newspaper. "Oh that is very cruel. Tom has lost of lot of weight since he took on the personal trainer."

"He's lost more since he started shitting bricks on a daily basis." Malcolm tore open a muffin. "Where's Dan?"

Nicholson laughed slightly. "He's coming Malcolm. Don't worry I have everything perfectly under control."

Ollie watched Malcolm force down the reply he wanted to give, waiting for a trickle of blood to come out of his ear.

He answered his phone, heading for the door.

"Kay Burley - bitch can't get enough of me."

Outside in the corridor - "Is Miller with you?"

"Left about twenty minutes ago. Him and Toby were playing backgammon or some shite," Jamie said. "Fleming been onto you?"

"He's spitting shit."

"Been out felching again has he?"

"He's a comfort eater," Malcolm said. "What're you getting from Miller?"

"Usual _Pride and Prejudice _wank but he's coming around. He never fucking liked Fleming anyway - been singing your praises though. Reckon he almost convinced Coyne you're not a total cunt."

Malcolm smiled to himself.

"How did the wanker's offer go down?"

"Like a vegetarian on a dirty dick."

"Is that good?"

"You never been out with a vegetarian?" Jamie asked. "It's bad. They've offered him Home Sec."

"That wasn't in the proposal."

"JB was ready to cut his own cock off by the end of the thing - the proposal went out'ae the fucking window."

"The wankers won't agree to Home Sec," Malcolm said, already feeling the change registering in his gut. "You were supposed to be dealing with this Jamie."

"Aye, I am one fucking man here."

"Barely."

There were muffled voices, Coyne and Jamie, laughter and doors closing.

"He's pissed up," Jamie said. He blew out a fast breath. "I've got to get a fucking fag."

"You must be spoilt for choice there."

"No-one's offered yet. I starting to think I'm not as pretty as you said."

"Keep me updated."

Malcolm went back into his office.

"She was Gladstone's mistress," Nicholson said. "Actually she was a rather infamous courtesan who was involved with several heads of state and politicians."

"Your mother?" Malcolm asked.

"Skittles," Ollie said. "The original one anyway - so this one's Coyne's mistress?"

"I don't think Toby Coyne would be foolish enough to have an affair with someone on his staff," Nicholson said with a small smile.

Malcolm scowled at him.

"Don't shit on your own doorstep," Ollie said.

"Precisely Oliver. Especially not in the middle of an election, you never know who's going to step in it."

Malcolm went for his coffee. "Enough with the fucking coyness - we all know who Skittles is."

"Well it was certainly an interesting choice," Nicholson said. "I wouldn't have thought Jamie's knowledge of Victorian _dames de chambre _was so wide ranging."

"Aye he's quite the fucking scholar on the quiet - which is where this is going to be kept. Coyne still thinks he's clean alright."

"He's your straw doll," Nicholson said. "Play with him as you wish."

"Malcolm can you take a look at this?" Ollie said.

"I'm not interested in your fucking _Lord of the Rings _slashfiction." He went over and looked at the file Ollie had open. "Yeah, actually you're right Frodo and Bilbo should have spit-roasted Smeagol, it's what the films were missing. Send it to this address - pen - "

He printed it out. "And eat that afterwards."

There was a knock on the office door.

"Evening gentlemen, glad to see I'm not the only one still prowling around." Dan Miller looked a little worse for wear but wired still. "Malcolm I was just having a drink with your evil twin."

Malcolm smiled, shook his hand. "Dan, so sorry to hear about Steve's little _faux pas._"

"That was rather a shocker yes, but…" he shrugged. "He knew the rules when he decided to play. You don't go into Roy Keane studs-up and expect a thank-you card do you?"

"Then we understand each other."

Dan Miller nodded. "I seem to remember you giving me some very good advice in the past Malcolm, I'm prepared to trust your judgement now. Especially with Tom…deciding to spend some more time with his family - is that the line you'll be taking?"

"I'll let him leave with as much dignity as possible," Malcolm said.

* * *

**Thank-you to everyone who has taken the time to read this and for all the lovely reviews and feedback. As you've probably gathered the election didn't go quite as I guessed it would; Con-Dem alliance, really, who would have thought that might actually happen? Feel like smacking Nick Clegg on the end of the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Bad Nick. No. Stop nuzzling David's crotch, he doesn't like it. (He is smiling though.)**

**Now this little story has come to an ending of sorts but I will be writing some new stuff in the next couple of weeks so please do check back through My Profile page soon and if you've enjoyed it do pass it on. **

**Grisette **


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